Sunday, Round One

Sunday mornings should be wonderful. Here I am again, coffee with too much creamer, books scattered about, tacky Christmas tree lights draped up the curtain... But Sundays, even before I awaken, are colored with the spectre of Monday. My dreams harbor discontent, feelings of inadequacy, self-loathing. That sounds bad, huh?

I've gone through several coping strategies since I realized my job is killing me. First I gave in, succumbed to the depression, guilt and unhappiness. That sucked, so I determined to LIKE my job. I would only look at the positives! I would concentrate on the nice students, the ones who had the desire and ability to take what I have to give. That helped, but to avoid falling back into an administration surveillance-induced funk I had to totally isolate myself, go into my cave-room and do what I do best. Lately I have changed my strategy a bit. Faced with some "higher-level" students who are totally self-absorbed and intent on making my life miserable because they know more than me and feel entitled to challenge everything I say, I have decided to come clean. I hate my job. Really detest it. So my strategy now is to admit I hate the job, develop methods to deal with stress and look for ways out.

Sundays are still taking a beating, however. How can I make Sunday seem longer? How can I forget that Monday is approaching fast, with its stomach aches and deep-breathing and pathetic little self-affirmations. "I will do a good job. I will not let a few obnoxious students ruin my day. 'I am good enough, I am smart enough, and doggone it....." So there is a built-in melancholy on this windy day (which sounds like warm waves hitting the shoreline, if I try), a surrender to forces against which I am no match.

Last night I sorted through old photos and found some beautiful snapshots of Willa that I placed in a frame and admired. Once we were sisters, and Willa was so beautiful! Green eyes, perfect teeth, bikini in the backyard girl. Funny. Witty, wonderful Willa with the chip on her shoulder.

And Georgia has been making a valiant effort at learning to use her phone. Texting me from a conference in Atlanta, she asked what exactly "freaking out" means. Which is what I must have written her (who knows when) at some point in the past two weeks. Telling her to keep her phone in her pocket and turned on does no good. It doesn't register. But that is Georgia.





Here are some photos from the garden last night. It was desolate-feeling, but not without rich bursts of color and the gentle consolation of some hearty living flowers. Two frogs burrowed into the bottom of the pond when I approached and tall plants had been cut back revealing all of the once-delightful hiding places. I climbed into a rose bed for a picture and my finger was poked with a thorn. I later realized that blood was dripping off my hand and I tried to wipe it onto stiff leaves. Later at the video store, my blood-smudged hand hidden from other customers (sort of), I saw a man that looked exactly like James Brown. AJ later said, "Mom, that always happens to you."